


Leave no path untaken

by Siff



Series: Looking back [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Ghosts, Hurt!Athos, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, i dont know what im doing honestly, like ghosts of the mind, not real ghosts, there's ghosts in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 22:51:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13258266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siff/pseuds/Siff
Summary: An injured Athos has a conversation with ghosts from his past





	Leave no path untaken

**Author's Note:**

> This is a writing exercise. I haven't written anything for nearly a year, and I'm trying to get back into a rhythm of some sort (can you smell the new year resolution, or what?)
> 
> Anyway, this is sort of a sequel to my other story Lesson Learned, since there are some of the same elements in both of them, despite not being directly linked.
> 
> But as I say, this is a silly little writing thing for me to get back into the game^^
> 
> Enjoy

Beneath the annoying sensation of dirt in his mouth, Athos can taste blood.

After spitting for a good few minutes, he just gives up and accepts it. Besides, he has more serious problems. One of them being a tree root which is apparently determined to reach his lungs through his back. He shifts slightly and groans as pain travel through his body, and he has to close his eyes as bile rises in his throat and the world begins to whirl around him.

He forces it down and takes a deep breath, inhaling more dirt, which he realized is clinging to his beard. He licks his lips and finds dirt there as well and groans again, before spitting it out. He slowly opens his eyes and sees the trees around him.

He’s lying on his back, almost curled around the body of a large tree. He vaguely remembers his stomach colliding with the trunk, knocking the wind out of him, along with his consciousness. The pain must have sent him directly into the darkness, and for a good while, judging by the changed color he sees in the sky through the leaves above him.

He tries to remember but the root in his back is making it hard to breathe and moving just hurts. Everything hurts. His left shoulder is throbbing and stars dance before his eyes as he shifts his arm, trying to cradle is close. It seems to take forever and nearly knocks him out again, but he manages to curl his fingers into the leather of his doublet, keeping his arm lying on his chest. The pain doesn’t lessen, but he knows it’s the best position to keep it in, should his shoulder be out of joint, which he strongly suspects.

The rest of his body seems intact. He feels like he has been run over by horse, but nothing seems broken. Carefully minding the pain in his shoulder, he moves his legs, his right arm, hissing slightly when a finger screams in pain. He glances at it and pales as he sees the odd way his little finger is pointing. Still wearing the leather glove, he can’t see if bone has breached the skin.

Coming to the conclusion that his shoulder took the worst of the fall, Athos breathes deeply and tries to steel himself, only to feel realization hit him.

The fall.

He remembers.

He cranes his neck, taking in his surrounding more firmly than just noticing the trees. He’s lying on a hill on his back, his head hanging down. The large tree he collided with earlier must have survived storms and mudslides, judging by how many of its roots are visible, sticking out of the each around him, and yet is still standing. Lucky for him, he guesses, as he with a groan twists slightly so he can look down the hill and sees the dirt give way to grey rock pointing up like jagged fingers.

On the rocks lies a motionless figure.

Athos recognizes the clothes and the blond hair, dirty and tangled as it is.

Slowly, minding his broken finger, he fumbles around until his hand finds a root strong enough, and he turns his body around until he’s lying on his stomach. It eases the pressure on his back and he can breathe more easily, but his body is heavy and he ends up lying on his left arm as well and must bite off a scream.

Pressing his face into the forest floor, smelling dirt and wet leaves, he grinds his teeth together as he slowly gets his right hand beneath him enough to push himself back. It turns out to be both a bad idea and a very good one. For when he somehow manages to get his knees up beneath him, the hill, steeper than he thought, nearly him tumbling down.

With a startled yell he throws out his right hand, grabbing a root and stops the fall, but not before his lower body slides down, correcting his position so he’s no longer hanging upside down, which is a relief. Breathing heavily, Athos digs his heels into the earth, finding support before slowly letting go of the root. The earth crumbles beneath his boots and with a yell, he slides down, down, down.

He tries to stop the fall but every time he grabs out, his broken finger screams in pain, and ends up sliding down until he reaches the grey rock, tumbling into the still body already lying there. It saves him from landing on the rocks, which he is more than thankful for now that he is getting a closer look at them. They are jagged, and sharp with blood covering them and man lying nearly pieced by the tips.

Athos pushes himself away from the man and lies down on his back beside him. His left arm had been spared the worst of the little trip down, and he cradles it closer, still feeling it throb painfully. He looks up the hill and sees the tree, and judges he must have fallen a good fifteen feet, if not more. Between the trees covering the hill, which just goes up and up, never seeming to end, he sees the cloudless sky above him with the smallest hint of red.

How long since he fell?

He looks at the man beside him, covering in dirt and leaves and blood and is tempted to thank whatever divine powers Aramis believes in, realizing that he easily could have shared the same fate. He doesn’t, for he might get a worse end than the poor idiot beside him.

With nightfall coming, he might die from exposure, if not from the wild animals living in the area, who, with no doubt, will smell the blood from the thief beside him.

He has no idea where he is and he knows he will never make it up the hill. His only chance is if the others find him. If they’re even alive.

He scolds himself. Of course, they’re alive. A few highwaymen, especially as unskilled as the fools who attacked them, could never defeat Aramis, d’Artagnan, and Porthos.

The thieves only advantage had been the surprise of their attack. Tired after days in the saddle, all of them, including Athos, had been less than aware. The thieves had come at them from between the trees. Porthos had been quick and fired his pistol, taking down one, before jumping off his horse, attacking the rest with a roar. Aramis had stayed on his horse, drawing his own guns, while d’Artagnan had followed Porthos into the fray. Athos had no plan of dismounting Roger, but a blond-haired man had jumped at him from high in a tree, pulling him from the saddle.

He has quickly gained his footing and drew his sword, which didn’t seem to scare the thief. Instead, he attacked, wildly and without any discipline. It was all too easy for Athos to knock the old, rusty sword out of his hand. The man had stumbled back, reaching the side of the road, and lost his balance. Quick as a striking snake, he reached out and grabbed Athos by the front of his doublet, just as he fell back.

Athos had grabbed onto the hand clutching him, but too late, and he was pulled by the man over the edge. In the short second he was in the air, he had looked past the man and down the hill, seeing nothing but trees. The hill seemed bottomless.

And then he fell.

The rest is vague in his head. Everything spun and turned and hurt like hell. Twigs snapped – or was it his finger? – and dirt and leaves clung to him, or slid beneath him, sending him further down. His legs hit trees, his arms hit roots, his body found every rock sticking out of the earth until he must have collided with the tree, knocking him out.

He didn’t know for how long.

How long before the others had finished with their attackers? How long until they realized Athos wasn’t among them anymore? How long until they figured out he had taken a tumbled down the hill?

He listens, hearing the forest around him. The wind in the trees, the birds on the branches. No voices, though. No one calling his name.

It was getting harder staying awake. He blinks a few times but darkness is creeping in. He must stay awake, he must stay awake… he must…

 

~*~

 

“Olivier… Olivier, wake up.”

Athos obeys. Partly because he knows he should not have his eyes closed right now, but mostly because that voice has no business being there, saying his name. His real name.

It’s a struggle to open his eyes. He feels heavy and the darkness is very luring when he knows the light brings pain and cold. Still, he opens them. The forest around him has indeed grown darker. The sky is a heavy purple color and the ground beneath him feels cold.

Still, he doesn’t care, instead searching for the speaker of that voice. His heart jumps uncomfortably in his chest when he sees him. He hasn’t changed at all.

Aside from the blood and the wound in his chest that’s no not there.

Instead, Thomas de la Fère looks like the last time Athos saw him alive. Dressed in dark trousers and a white shirt with those lace on the sleeves and around the neck. His beard and hair are dark and well-kept, and his green eyes, their mother’s eyes, are looking down at Athos. He is kneeling on one leg beside Athos, arm thrown carelessly over his knee. His slender fingers are curled slightly and shows the ring their father gave him before he died. The stone is black as obsidian.

Athos looks at his younger brother, not quite understanding how he can be there, and a stupid and obvious statement leave his mouth before he can stop himself. “You are dead.”

Thomas nods. “I am. And so will you be if you don’t get up.”

“I’m dreaming.”

“Probably,” says Thomas and puckers his lips slightly in amusement. It's such a familiar expression that Athos can feel a familiar pain flare up inside him when he sees it. It's old and cold like ice and has nothing to do with his fall down the hill.

“Please go away,” he whispers. Thomas looks slightly hurt and it reminds Athos of someone. He can’t quite remember who.

“Go away? You want me to leave even though we haven’t seen each other in years? Talked in years?”

Swallowing, Athos nods.

Thomas frowns and moves closer, sitting down next to Athos, who has to move his head back to look up at him. Thomas draws his knees up to his chest and looks ahead.

“That hurts,” he says and suddenly appears so much younger. Athos wants to close his eyes, to make the sight go away, but he can’t. He can only look at his younger brother.

“It hurts me to see you,” Athos says. Thomas just nods slightly.

“I know. It’s your fault I’m dead.”

Tears gather in Athos’ eyes. The pain inside him grows even stronger, mingling with the guilt, the sorrow. It all stirs into a dark pit in his chest, threatening to devour his entire body. His mind. His soul.

Thomas looks at him with those green eyes and it only makes it worse. He wants Thomas to go away.

“I can’t,” says Thomas. “Not as long as you are like this.”

“Like what?” Athos whispers through dry lips.

“Dying.”

“I’m not dying,” says Athos.

“You are,” says Thomas. “Just too stubborn to admit it. Or maybe too proud,” he muses and grins slightly down at Athos. “Not much honor in being killed by a hill.” Despite himself, Athos huffs out a small laugh. Thomas grins at him.

 “I missed you,” he says. His eyes are warm despite the sad look on his face.

“I missed you too.” Athos looks up at the sky above him. The cold inside him seems to spread out to his arms and legs. He might join Thomas before the night is over.

“Morbid as ever,” scolds Thomas with no real heat. “What would mother say?”

“Something kind yet stern, I would think,” says Athos, remembering the way she could always see when he was troubled. How she would brush his hair away from his eyes and smooth out the frown on his forehead. Grim thoughts leave grim faces, she used to say, so think kindly, my son, and it will show to the rest of the world.

His father’s teaching had been very different.

Like his first fencing instructor, his father had not believed that kindness was the way to form a boy into a man. His father had not believed kindness was the way to achieve anything. He had no doubt it was the reason why Mother had died so young. She hadn’t been suited to live with a man like that.

Thomas had been so young when she died, Athos doubts he remembers much about her.

“You used to tell me about her,” Thomas says, bringing Athos attention back to him. “Sing the songs she used to sing.”

“And poorly, if I remember correctly,” says Athos dryly, though Thomas doesn’t smile at all.

“You always took the blame when I misbehaved.” His voice was barely a whisper. “You stepped in when Father was angry, taking the punishment without hesitation.”

Athos swallows and then coughs, feeling how dry his throat is. “You were so young.”

“So were you.”

“I was old enough to handle it.”

“Handle the beatings from our teachers.” It’s a statement, emotionless and not sounding like Thomas at all. He looks away from Athos again, a haunted look on his face. He reminds Athos of someone. Someone dear to him. “Handle the harsh words and the disappointment. You never complained or stepped down, even if I begged you to. You wouldn’t let me get hurt, not by him.”

“I protected you,” Athos says and Thomas looks at him, his green eyes hard and dark, and the sudden sneer on his lips makes Athos jerk in surprise.

“Not from her,” he hisses, sounding nothing like Thomas. “Not from your wife.”

The darkness in Athos wakes again and begins to spread through his chest. “I didn’t know,” he whispers. He is caught by the hatred he sees in Thomas’ eyes, hatred he never saw when he was alive.

“You are an idiot then,” says Thomas coldly, and every word is like a knife to heart. “A fool, too eager to be happy after a childhood so grey. Father was barely cold in his grave before you threw Catherine aside to take that woman as your bride.”

Athos can’t answer. He just stares at the unfamiliar expression on Thomas’ face.

“I think she knew,” Thomas continues. “She knew how whipped you were, how eager for kind words and touches you were. Eager enough to throw generations of traditions aside, to break promises between families and marry some whore you barely knew.” Thomas leans down over him, a dark shadow that blocks out everything. “You were so eager to be loved by someone, you killed me to achieve it.”

No, it's not true. Athos wants to say it but his mouth is dry, his chest is full of pain it chokes all air out of him, leaving nothing left for words. Only Thomas doesn’t seem to need to hear words to know.

“You killed me, brother. You who spend so many years to protect me. Killed me because of a woman. Some brother you are.” The words are so full of disgust, but are still not a match of the look Thomas gives him as he leans back. Athos can’t breathe.

“And what do you do to avenge me?” Thomas asks. “You let her get away. Even when she tries to kill your new brothers, you still won’t end her life. What a comrade you are.” He looks down at Athos, reaches out until his hand hovers just above his chest. But the fingers are suddenly gloved. A blue, silk glove with finger far more slender and elegant that Thomas’ ever were.

With wide eyes, Athos looks up at Anne. She is beautiful as ever.

“You should have killed me, Athos,” she says. “You can throw the locket away. You can banish me from Paris, but you know it will never end before we are both dead.” Her eyes find his, and for once, he has no idea what she is thinking.

She draws her hand back. “But it won’t end today,” she says and sighs a bit dramatically. “You should say something or they won’t find you.”

What?

Anne sighs again, but her smile is so kind, so loving as she bends down to him. Her lips are red. “Or maybe you want to stay. Stay here me with me, your true love.” She strokes his cheek, though he barely feels it. “Live the life we never got to have.”

Her lips touch his but he can’t feel it. There is nothing. The cold and darkness inside him are still threatening to devastate him, but the heat she used to ignite is no longer there.

“No,” he whispers. Anne frowns slightly.

“No?”

“No,” he says firmly. He still loves her, he truly does, but it’s no longer the same. The love is not the same. The locket no longer weights him down. She no longer weights him down.

The guilt and sorrow over losing Thomas are still there, it always will be. But her hold over him will not. He won’t allow it.

“I will keep my promise,” he says, meeting her eyes. “If I see you again, I will kill you.” She leans back, displeasure clear on her face.

“Heartless as always,” she says, but he barely hears her. Someone is calling his name. A familiar voice.

_Athos_.

“You had the chance before,” she says, finger pulling at the fabric around her throat and shows him the scar. “Twice even. You will never be able to kill me.

_Athos!_

“I will,” he says. “If you threaten them again, I will.” Anne frowns.

“Who?”

_Athos!_

He smiles and draws in a breath, saying as loudly as he can. “d’Artagnan!”

Thomas takes her place, staring coldly down at him. Colder than Thomas ever would. “So, you replace me with them? Just like that.”

“No, never just like that,” he says, breathing heavily. “Nothing is ever so easy, but I prefer their company, to the distorted memory of yours.”

_Athos!_

“Over here!” he somehow manages to yell out.

“Athos! Thank god!”

He blinks. Thomas reaches out to him but the hand touching his cheeks are gloved in leather, and the eyes looking down at him are no longer green. D’Artagnan’s worried yet relieved face replaces Thomas’.

The hands brush his hair aside and d’Artagnan twists over his shoulder and yell. “I found him.” What comes next are a series of rather colorful words, followed closely by more familiar faces, all smiling down at him.

“There you are,” says Porthos and kneels on his other side. “Been looking everywhere for you.”

“You found me,” Athos smiles and reaches out to Porthos, who barely stops himself from clasping his hand as he sees the broken finger. He curses and calls for Aramis to hurry up.

Aramis joins them but offers only the short comfort of his forehead pressed against Athos’ before he quickly looks him over. He gives d’Artagnan instructions to light a fire, and the young musketeer reluctantly removes his hands from Athos.

Athos instantly feels cold.

He swallows with difficulty. “Porthos.”

“Right here, my friend.” The hand that touched his cheek is gloveless and warm, as is the finger stroking his lips. “You have dirt everywhere. Proper badger now, is what you are.”

“Shoulder’s thrown out,” says Aramis. “Finger is obviously broken. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. Aramis nods.

“Right, we may have to undress you to look you over.” Athos nods, understanding. He doesn’t mind. He feels safe.

“I’ll be right back,” Aramis assured him, a hand on his unhurt arm before he leaves.

Porthos pulls off his cloak and covers Athos with it. “Does it hurt.”

“Not so much anymore. Too cold I guess,” says Athos. “What?”

Porthos is frowning. “It’s just… you fell pretty far. Could have broken everything, you know.”

“I know,” says Athos, thankful for the worry in his friend’s eyes. “But you?” he asks, remembering the fight. “How are you?”

“A small cut and some bruises,” says Porthos dismissively. “Nothing we can’t handle. It was you we were worried about. Took forever to find a way down here with the horses.”

“That’s good,” says Athos.

 “What are you smiling about?” Aramis asks as he drops down on the forest floor beside him. Behind him, Athos can see a growing light from a fire. He carefully feels the swollen area around Athos’ shoulder, frowning slightly. “You took a nasty fall, didn’t you?”

“You found me,” Athos says with a weak smile. “Though, try to catch me next time, will you?”

Porthos snorts, but Aramis gives him a welcoming look of annoyance. “Athos, please,” he says, and Athos can’t help but smirk. Closing his eyes, he leans against Porthos hand, feeling the warmth as Aramis gently begins his work.

**Author's Note:**

> I once fell down a hill. Like a really big hill... hurt like hell, not gonna lie.


End file.
